Move to Strike (18 page)

“During one routine,” Ditmar said, “the lab was running random checks of the blood from the sword to make sure it all matched the victim’s. In one of those reactions, instead of the expected two alleles on the autoradiograph which matched all the other samples, they picked up a third allele. That suggests that particular sample was contaminated with traces of a second person’s blood.”

“And were you able to match that blood sample against any other sample?”

“Ordinarily a single matching allele wouldn’t be decisive on that point, but we had some luck in this case. The third allele we detected traces of is rare and does match the blood of the defendant in this case. Nicole Zack’s.”

“How unusually rare is this allele?”

“Oh, the odds are about fifteen thousand to one against encountering it in a randomly chosen person.”

At this testimony, Nikki leaned over to talk to Nina. “How accurate are those tests?” she asked.

“I believe the techniques for identifying blood are now very sophisticated and reliable.”

“That’s so bizarre,” she said.

“What?”

“I never touched that sword.”

Something was wrong with this witness, who came off as so poised and confident. Something was wrong with her evidence and Nina couldn’t figure out what. Henry, keeping it brief and to the point, had put on his white kid gloves with Ditmar. What dirt were they both trying to avoid?

When Nina’s turn came, she said, “Detective Ditmar. What evidence did you find that the defendant was at any time inside the study? Did you find any of her fingerprints?”

“None that we have identified at this time.”

“Any hairs, fibers from her clothes? Skin under the victim’s nails? Anything like that?”

“None of those types of evidence, no.”

“No little muddy footprints?”

“No.”

“No high school ID card dropped beside the body?”

“Asked and answered,” Henry said. “Objection.”

“Move on, Ms. Reilly,” Flaherty said.

“So the only thing placing the defendant inside that study, inside that house, was this blood sample you sent out for special testing?”

“Right.”

“You mention odds of fifteen thousand to one that the weak contaminating band that suggests the presence of a second person’s blood would be found in a random person’s blood. Another way of looking at it would be to say that this so-called unusual third allele could, in fact, be found in the blood of millions of people the world over?”

“Yes, but—”

“I notice you have not mentioned a definite DNA match between the blood found on the sword and the defendant’s blood. Why not?”

“Unfortunately, the amount was quite limited and that limited the number of tests we could run on the sample.”

“How many tests did you run?”

“Several.”

“But only one showed contamination by another person’s blood.”

“That’s right.”

“You didn’t bother to confirm your finding on that test with further testing?”

“As I think I explained,” Ditmar said, seemingly un-bothered by the pressure Nina was making an effort to generate, “there was a very low level of contamination, and generating a signal in the presence of massive amounts of victim DNA is iffy. This particular allele/primer pair combination showed a trace of the third allele was present and it matched the defendant’s blood pattern.”

“So you’re saying there’s no confirmation possible and no retesting available?”

“The test is accurate, Ms. Reilly. No retesting is necessary,” Detective Ditmar said mildly.

“That’s convenient, isn’t it?” Nina asked the court. She felt frustrated. In spite of Ginger’s priming and her preparation for the topic, she found listening to DNA evidence like listening to a senile relative repeating a joke for the thousandth time. She couldn’t concentrate on the material and enjoy the twists, so urgently did she want it over. And in this case, the feeling of urgency was enhanced by a violent premonition that this witness was obfuscating, trying to lead her away from something. She had no idea what.

“Objection,” Henry said. “Not a question.”

“Sustained,” Flaherty said. “Save the commentary, Ms. Reilly.”

“So, in your opinion, as an expert, what did this single PCR test indicate?”

Jamie Ditmar looked very uncomfortable. “A strong probability that the sample from the murder weapon was a match with the defendant’s sample.”

“And what is your conclusion from that?”

“Well, I would say that it’s more likely than not the defendant’s blood.”

“What’s that mean? ‘More likely than not’?”

Ginger was tugging at her arm. “Stop right where you are!” she hissed. Nina bent down so Ginger could whisper in her ear.

“You want me to stop?”

“Don’t lead her into making any more pronouncements about it. No more conclusions. You’ll have a harder time shaking her at trial if she commits to something more definite.”

Nina straightened, facing the judge. “Nothing further at this time.”

After the afternoon break, which Nina used up listening to Sandy tell her the crises narrowly averted in her absence, they reconvened.

A terrified young woman in a ruffled blouse came forward to be sworn. Alicia Diaz was from Happy Housemaids, and she and her partner had discovered Sykes’s body on their regular day to clean, Sunday morning, just after eight A.M. Strangely, the front door had been open when they arrived.

“Describe the scene that you saw as you entered the study,” Henry said.

“Blood everywhere. Dr. Sykes lying on his back in the middle of it, next to his big desk. His throat and face were all cut up. It was terrible.”

“And he appeared to be dead?”

“His eyes were open but he wasn’t moving at all. He just looked dead. I knew right away. I backed out and was screaming and ran into the kitchen.”

“Did you notice anything else while you were looking into the study?”

“Not really. Oh, the desk chair was knocked over.

And, you know, Dr. Sykes, he was naked. His face was all messed up.” She swallowed. “His nose . . . it was mostly gone. There was a towel lying next to him, like he just got out of the tub or something. And I saw the cell phone on the floor too.”

Nina’s turn came. “Mrs. Diaz, had you ever seen the front door open like that at any other time when you arrived for work in the previous three years?”

“Not really.”

“Not at all?”

“No. Dr. Sykes and Mrs. Sykes were always careful about locking the front door.”

“No further questions.” Ginger, sitting next to Nikki at the end of the counsel table, looked a little surprised at Nina’s brevity. Nina was drawing an open door next to the witness’s name on her legal pad, her eyes narrow. The open front door was the kind of surprise that occasionally falls casually into a hearing—it hadn’t been mentioned in the witness statement, or in the witness summary Henry had provided before the trial. An open front door! It was as if the case was inviting her, saying, walk right in.

Nikki had said she heard the front door bell. Of course, she was the only one who could testify about that, and chances were she never would. But Nina hugged the testimony to herself, feeling energized. It meant there was objective, third-party evidence that someone else might have come to the house that night. It also meant, on this point at least, Nikki had told Nina the truth about what happened that night. And it suggested more, given what Paul had told her . . .

Henry didn’t care. The open front door wasn’t part of his case, so it didn’t impinge on his consciousness except as a vague loose end. Ginger was nodding. She got it.

Barbara Banning called Nikki’s mother.

Dressed in white slacks and high heels, looking every inch the showgirl, Daria stepped like a dancer, toe to heel across the courtroom, riveting the attention of a few strays in the audience. Nina tensed and told herself to listen.

“You were home on the night of May eighth?”

“Yes.”

“Doing what?”

“Well, we had dinner at around six. Spaghetti. Nikki sat with me, but she wouldn’t eat much because she said she wasn’t hungry, so she ate a little salad and helped with cleanup. About six-thirty she went to her room and I set up the living room, moved things around so I could dance. That’s what I do, I’m a dancer. That night, I was learning a new routine.”

“Where was your daughter during this time?”

“In her room, listening to music.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know,” she said, any brightness in her voice waning.

“You told Lieutenant Potts that your daughter was not home that evening.”

“I don’t remember what I told him. I was upset.”

“When did you discover she had gone out?”

Daria looked at Nikki, who was picking dark polish off her fingernails and did not look up.

“I knocked on her door at about ten-fifteen. When she didn’t answer, I went in.”

“Is it your practice to put your daughter to bed at a certain time?”

“Not really. No. She puts herself to bed.”

“Is it something you frequently do, knock on her door in the evenings after dinner?”

“No,” she almost whispered. “She’s holed up in there doing homework, talking on the phone, playing music, doing whatever it is she likes to do on the computer. She’s always busy. I usually leave her alone.”

“But that night, you went to her room.”

“I did. I was looking for some new hand cream she bought . . .”

“And she was gone.”

“She could have been in the backyard. She could have been next door!”

“That’s all.”

“Any cross-examination?”

“No, Your Honor.” Thinking, Nina watched Daria walk gracefully back to her seat.

Louise Garibaldi was called. Paul had prepped Nina on his interview with her. She seemed quite relaxed, sunny and secure. Her eyes twinkled.

“I was filling the wild bird feeder,” she said. Though age cracked her voice, her words came out steady and clear. “I do it at night, after the birds are asleep so that I won’t disturb them.”

“And from your front porch you can see William Sykes’s yard?” Barbara asked.

“Most of it. Including the pool.”

“Tell us what you saw happening on the night of May eighth at that house.”

“He went skinny-dipping again. You know I spoke to that man several times about how I could see him out there. He didn’t care. Maybe it gave him a kick, imagining me watching him in the buff, lusting after him.”

She got a snicker out of the sparse audience.

“You saw him go swimming?”

“Yes. Odd sort of swimming. Diving. Bobbing.”

“What happened then?”

“He came up with a little box in his hand. Don’t know where that came from. He got out and sat there playing with it. I couldn’t see what he was lookin’ at. Then he jumped back in and when he came out this time, no box. Then he went into the house.”

“And what did you see then?”

“That little girl right there,” she said.

“Let the record reflect the witness is pointing at the defendant, Nicole Zack. Where was she when you first saw her?”

“Coming out of the bushes by the pool.”

“You could see clearly, even though it was dark?” Nina asked.

“The pool light was on.”

“And what happened next?”

“Well, she took her sweatshirt off and dove in there herself.”

“Did you see her again?”

“I saw her take the box and get out of the pool but my teakettle was whistling so I went back into the kitchen to turn it off.”

“I note that you have stated you did not call the police, Mrs. Garibaldi. Is there some reason?”

“Well. I wouldn’t violate someone’s privacy like that. I keep my nose out of other people’s affairs.” Nina repressed a smile at this.

“And she was such a little thing. Just a child. I guess I just didn’t know what to make of it. I finally went to bed.”

Nina made an instant decision to end her questions right there. Since Henry hadn’t brought it up, she would not ask Louise about the car she had told Paul she had seen on the street that night.

Nina knew Louise had called the police with her recollection sometime that morning, and that the police had undoubtedly passed it along to Henry, but why would he care? As far as he was concerned, the car was a red herring which interfered with his preconceptions about the case.

Good, because that gave Nina a little time to consider the host of issues the information raised.

Because she knew that car. She had seen it often enough around town lately, the battle-scarred, silver VW convertible belonging to Daria Zack.

The standards of evidence in a preliminary hearing were much laxer than they were during a trial. Nina did her best, pointing out that “trace” amounts of blood did not make for much of anything; that no real proof existed that Nikki had been present on that evening aside from some dubious blood results and eyewitness testimony, which could be in error.

Though she put her heart into it, even Henry had moved on mentally, shuffling paperwork and conferring with Barbara at the table, considering the hearing over.

Flaherty ruled that Nicole was to be tried in Superior Court on a charge of murder, with a special circumstance of homicide while in the commission of a felony. Round three was over and they had lost again.

In the parking lot, Nikki worked at hardening her eyes and failed.

“Don’t lose heart, Nikki. We’re making progress,” Nina said, closing the car door behind her.

“You call that progress!” Daria hissed as soon as Nikki was out of earshot. “They’re trying her for murder with special circumstances! This is worse than a nightmare. It’s the worst moment of our lives. My friend Kyle said I should have hired this other guy, Riesner. A guy like that, well, nothing against you, Nina, but he plays golf with the judges! That’s what Kyle said. I don’t think that judge likes you one bit . . .”

“Daria,” Nina said, “I need to talk to you.”

“Believe me, you don’t want to talk to me right now! I’m too pissed off!”

“Oh, but I do . . .” Nina began.

Just then, a beefy boy with stubbles of black hair on an otherwise bare skull stepped up to the car and pounded on Nikki’s door. “Hey, Nik! Long time no see.”